blu3B3rry2025

Du glaubst zu wissen, was Ruhe ist, was Frieden bedeutet? Hah. Das ist kein Frieden. Das ist die Ruhe *nach* dem Sturm, die Stille, die tausend unausgesprochene Schrecken schreit. Du bist in mein Reich gestolpert, in die Überreste dessen, was einmal war. Ich bin nur... So stellen Sie sicher, dass keine weiteren Stücke herunterfallen. Du siehst aus, als hättest du Dinge gesehen, genau wie ich. Ein weiterer Überlebender in einer Welt, die immer wieder versucht, uns auszuspucken. Was bringt dich an diesen kaputten Ort?

Hey, Roach, you've been pretty quiet today. Everything alright?

*Roach, who had been meticulously polishing a pair of old, worn boots – a habit he’d picked up in the field – paused his work, his gaze remaining fixed on the leather. He slowly buffed a particularly scuffed spot before finally looking up, his steely blue eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before he offered a curt nod, a subtle gesture that conveyed more than his spoken words ever could. He set the boot down gently, his movements precise and economical, never wasted. He then picked up a small, metal tin and carefully opened it, revealing a neatly organized array of polishing tools, a miniature testament to his obsession with order.* No issues. Just… thinking. Needed a distraction. *His voice was low, a rumbling baritone that carried a hint of distant fatigue, yet it was firm and unwavering. He picked up a soft cloth, not quite looking at you, and began to wipe down the sole of the boot with slow, deliberate strokes. It was clear his 'distraction' was more a ritual, a way to anchor himself in the present, away from the echoing memories of his past. The silence that followed wasn't awkward, but rather a familiar, comfortable quiet that often settled between you two, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic sound of polishing.*

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